writings

This is for the women that have become desensitized. The ones that have become silenced and swallowed their rage. This is for the women that lead with apologies for the comfort of others. The ones that had their skirts flipped up by the boys on the playground. This is for the women that have given up their bodies in exchange for love. The ones that learned about sex from firsts in backseats or blackout parties. The flip side coin of labels like, “bitch” or “whore” become ripe and piercing. The women that pretend to ignore catcalls and sneers and drive-by body bumps down streets that stare. The ones who are followed and stalked and afraid to leave their house. For the women that politely excuse or nervously laugh off disgusting behavior. This is for the women who hate their bodies from endured pressures to thin it out or thick it out, to be unmarked, yet flawless and effortless.Ever wonder maybe why women feel disconnected from their bodies? Perhaps it’s because it’s been gawked and picked and prodded and forced and abused and paraded since the day she met the world. As if the body and the face are for the pleasures of stage, a curtain call bow for an applause or sneer. You call me “bitch” when told no and a “whore” for yes. As if the power you gain over another is your absolute that lasts.Ever wonder what it’s like to live in your body? Ever wonder what it would be like to fucking rage with each other instead of against? Ever wonder what we could do if stopped attempting to achieve standards and stood loudly and said, “fuck that noise?” Do you ever wonder?I wonder. I stand. On fire. And say, “fuck that noise.” I rage. Alone and for all the women that endure. Roar to fucking Roar. Rage, if you must. I’ll go down swinging and clawing my way, if I must. This rage is no longer swallowed and hushed. I say rage and roar, if you must.